Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Basta!

DC summer is here, despite the calendar swearing it's still spring. The season, as usual, was heralded by hideous heat and humidity arriving late last week. Of course, I didn't really have to experience the sweat-fest, as I spent the Memorial Day weekend housebound by an ankle injury (which followed a back injury). How does one badly screw up an ankle while lying still? I don't know, but I did it. 3:30 Friday morning, Princess Insomnia is out on the sofa, watching old Mythbusters episodes, when suddenly there was an audible grind and POP from my right foot, and I was rendered a gibbering, moaning, writhing mess. I ended up going to the hospital on Friday for an x-ray (nothing broken, fortunately) and then proceeded to curl up in a fetal ball at home for days.

The Sasquatch had offered to drive me to the hospital, but I declined. I think I was pretty awful and very succinct about saying no. He was sick, and when that man gets sick, it's never just a little cold. He seems to have a switch that goes from healthy to *click* full-blown Stephen King straight-from-The-Stand Captain Trips. Thus, my reluctance to take him up on his incredibly kind offer.

There had been a wonderful plan to grill lobster tails with the Sasquatch, but between my gimpiness and his 100F fever, it did not happen. I contacted the nice people of Salt River Lobster and canceled my order of lovely crustacean tailage, and they promised they would "be sure to find a loving home for them." That message alone guarantees that, when I'm less hobbled, I will procure some tasty lobster badonkadonk from them, big time.

I had Giant's Peapod service delivery groceries to me on Saturday, which was a blessing, since I can't carry a newspaper upstairs without weeping and dragging limbs like some cut-rate Hammer film monster. Sadly, I could not convince the Peapod delivery guy to do my laundry or take down my trash, so I've been eyeing all the crap and clothes in the entryway, pondering just when I will run out of clean clothes and be forced to go downstairs. That day is coming. Soon. Very soon.
Until then, here I am. Stuck and increasingly cranky about it. (But hey - I'm 1000% less cranky than I was the six days my orthopedist had me on some steroid pain pack. I almost took somebody's head off over getting the wrong - sugared - flavoring in my McDonald's iced coffee. Not pretty.) When you're a cranky, housebound insomniac, you have too much time to think. So, I'm going to take advantage of the heightened crank factor and share a short list of things I never want to hear about, ever again.

Ready?

Things I've already grown weary of this summer:

1. Fifty Shades of Grey
2. Snooki's pregnancy
3. Any show with the word "Housewives" in the title that isn't a canceled narrative drama on ABC
4. Donald Trump and "birthers" (didn't we go through this crap already)?
5. Project America's Got Gleeful Duet Voice Idol Talent
6. Wonderful musicians dying
7. Kardashians. All of them. ALL of them. If they grow facial ridges and giant lizard necks and move to a space station, I may be willing to revisit this point.

Side note: Bruce Jenner. Why all the plastic surgery? I'd like to say it was a rare moment of foolishness late in life, but then I remembered this:

8. Big Fat Gypsy Weddings on any continent or island, Toddlers with Tiaras, Dance Moms, and that aging surfer dude and his four wives
9. That I even know the shows in #8 exist
10. A distinct lack of margaritas in my life

I know. First world problems. Get me out of this apartment and I'll work on real world problems. For now, this is what you get, snark and too much basic cable.

2 comments:

Hey! You wrote something! That I agree with! And if I lived within driving distance (one day round trip), I would come take out your trash and make you gazpacho as a reward. But I would NOT give an insomniac iced coffee, because that is just giving Morpheus the finger.